


Free to Be You and Me (Take 2)

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 14, Angry Castiel (Supernatural), Bottom Dean Winchester, Coda, Coda for 14x11, Coda for Damaged Goods, Coda for Episode s14e11, Dean's red shirt of bad decisions, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Forgiving Castiel (Supernatural), Gay Sex, Loving Dean Winchester, M/M, Makeup Sex, Rescue Missions, Rough Sex, Self-Sacrificing Dean Winchester, Top Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, the ocean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 23:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17538311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: This is a fix-it for that shit show 14x11. Sure, Sam might have been able to talk Dean out of it, but Castiel's a man of action.





	Free to Be You and Me (Take 2)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so bitter about this episode so I channeled my rage here and I hope that you enjoy. I don't even like bottom!Dean but here we fucking are.
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

The small fishing boat sways in the rocky Pacific waves. The water is dark and deep with frothy caps, roiling like the simmering anger threatening to rise to a boil and consume Castiel completely at any moment. The only thing that keeps a lid on all that rage is his laser-focus on the task in front of him. _Finish the job, then deal with the anger,_ Castiel reminds himself, but it’s no easy task. In all his millennia, in _all the ways_ he’s been abused and taken advantage of, lied to and betrayed and shit on by angels, demons, and humankind alike- _nothing_ compared to this. Nothing.

Castiel pauses for a moment in his efforts, flexing his fingers on the crank mechanism that’s tediously releasing furled iron rope into the sea weighted down by a giant hook. Castiel takes a deep breath and steadies his trembling hands. _Focus. There will be time for the rest later._ He returns to cranking a bit too vigorously, his hand slipping off the mechanism and slicing open across the palm. Castiel curses and doesn’t bother healing himself until the blood makes turning the crank impossible. Then it’s just a few more turns and, _that should do it,_ he thinks.

Peering over the side of the boat into the almost-black waves, Castiel can’t see anything past five or so feet down. The twisting, braided strands of the rope disappear into the dark, past where his eyes can follow. His powers are so unpredictable these days, it only adds to his frustration and acrimony that on this day of all days, he’s found wanting. _Whatever._

He kicks off his shoes, toes off his socks, unbuttons and shrugs off his dress shirt before tossing it onto the deck where his suit jacket already lays in a heap. He leaves his dress pants done up, clipping a waterproof flashlight to his belt before climbing up onto the side of the boat and swinging one leg over to balance on the rail. He clicks the flashlight on and reaches out, tugging at the iron rope where it hangs from the crane. _You goddamn son of a bitch,_ Castiel rankles internally, and then he jumps.

The shock of the water is surprising but painfully invigorating. It fuels Castiel’s fury, his resentment for having to do this at all. He swims down, down, down, away from the light and the boat and whatever’s left of his sanity, most likely. The pressure increases and the cold gets more and more intense, but thank whoever, Castiel seems to have enough juice, _is enough of a fucking angel today of all days, Halle-fucking-lujah,_ that he isn’t bothered and doesn’t feel any kind of pressing need for oxygen. He swims on until he reaches the hook, grabbing and dragging it down with him. Finally, the light on his belt bounces off the seafloor, white where previously there was only black. Castiel uses the hook to weight himself, standing on it and holding on so that he can direct the flashlight with his other hand.

It’s deadly silent at the bottom of the ocean. Crushing, penetratingly silent, the kind of quiet that would drive a man mad if it went on too long. _As if there wasn’t enough to worry about,_ Castiel fumes. Finally, his stream of bright cutting through the dark alights on an anomaly, and he rushes towards it- well, he moves as quickly as he’s able while swimming awkwardly and dragging the giant hook behind him. Thank _fuck_ the box has a handle. Castiel spares a moment to consider the weight and potential strain and the likelihood that the whole box might snap off from the little strip of metal posing as a grip, going careening unchecked through the water’s depths and crashing to the sea floor, undoubtedly destroying the precious contents inside. His precious contents. _Would serve him right,_ Castiel thinks and snorts, forgetting he’s underwater and not really sure what to do with that. He clicks the hook into place and swims for the distant glimmer of light like a bullet.

When his head breaks the surface of the water, he takes a deep, gasping breath, simply because he can, _because it feels good,_ and Castiel’s done not doing the things he wants to do, simply because he wants to do them. He should feel worried or perhaps relieved or at least anxious, but he doesn’t. He’s still just _angry._ Petulantly, furiously, _angry_.

He climbs the iron rope hand over hand and once high enough swings back and forth, releasing his grip to rocket himself over the side of the boat, clearing the rail easily and landing on his feet with perfect balance and precision. He wonders if the box shook with his movements, in its quiet place down at the bottom of the sea. His dark hair and pants are sopping and dripping into freezing cold puddles, water running in rivulets over his bare chest and puddling at his feet, but besides a quick shake he ignores it all in favor of heading directly for the crane.

With his goal in sight, Castiel feels renewed. He unlocks the crank and starts turning with vigor, the rope retracting into its coiled cage, dark and wet as the sea. With a body that doesn’t tire and has no need for fuel (at least for the time being), the process goes quickly. Castiel harnesses the outrage, the affront, the _disappointment_ stewing and boiling inside of him and soon enough, the narrow top of the box reaches and crests the surface of the water. Castiel pushes harder, rising it fully up and out and locking it into place high above the waves. He backs up to maneuver the crane up and over the deck of the boat, lowering the box down until it’s flat, just as it was on the ocean floor.

Castiel grabs the crowbar he brought specifically for this moment and jams it into the edge where the box is sealed. It _looks_ like it’s held completely watertight, but there’s no way to know without getting it open. Castiel goes to push down and crack the lid, but he hesitates, looking down and standing perfectly still for a moment, a residual droplet of water running down his nose and lingering at the tip before falling heavily to the lacquered wood at his naked feet. And then he breaks.

When Castiel screams, it seems to echo off of the water and the sky itself, reverberating into the heavens and for miles into the distance. He drops to his knees, groaning loudly and slamming his fist into the deck of the ship. He narrowly misses hitting the box by only inches. He stays there, chest heaving, fists clenched and fueled by rage. When he stands, his eyes are dark and stormy, just like the sea. His hair is wild and untamed and even in his trueform Castiel’s never been so intimidating.

He smashes the box open with one flying fist directed at the stuck crowbar. Pieces of the lid go flying in all directions and shockingly, the inside appears untouched by water or pressure or anything else.

And miraculously, _divinely,_ there is Dean.

Infuriatingly, he looks just like the last time Castiel saw him, except about a hundred times more terrified. His plush pink lips are bitten scabbed and bloody but they’re pursed in a small “O” that makes Castiel want to jam his fingers inside and pull him up by the jaw.

He scowls, and Dean blinks.

“You’re not real,” Dean whispers, twisting his fingers together until they turn white with pressure. Castiel notices his nails and cuticles are also bitten down and worn bloody, and yet he still picks. “I’m dreaming, I’ve dreamed you so many times and you’re… you’re not…”

“I’m real,” Castiel snarls, stepping into the box and crouching between Dean’s legs so that he can reach down and grab the front of his shirt. He drags Dean’s resisting body into a sitting position, no easy task but nothing compared with working the crank. Dean’s eyes go wide, and the dim light of late afternoon makes their emerald green sparkle. The familiar, _heart-achingly beautiful_ sight only makes Castiel angrier, and he hauls back and slaps Dean across the face. “How _dare_ you? How dare you disregard yourself, disregard _me_ this way? I wasn’t worth a goodbye, Dean? Is that the truth? I wasn’t worth your honesty? You _promised_ me, you selfish jackass! You told me we would find a way, that you would kill Michael, that _your happiness,_ your life finally meant something to you. And _this_ is what you do? Goddamn it Dean, I should kill you where you sit for your insolence. Wrap this box back up and drop you straight back into the ocean.”

Castiel breaks, bracing himself for the onslaught of self-sacrificing hero bullshit he’s so used to spewing from Dean’s mouth, but it never comes. Instead, Dean’s eyes grow redder, visibly filling with tears that he tries unsuccessfully to blink away until they’re overflowing, tracking down his cheeks like rivers down a mountainside. “Caass,” he hisses, low and broken, and then it all falls apart. Just like that Dean’s grabbing at him, clutching with his nails at Castiel’s shoulders so tightly he has to be drawing blood. He’s bawling, loudly and openly and the sound worms its way into Castiel’s chest and breaks his irascible heart. He sounds terrified, despondent, _heartbroken,_ and absolutely ripped open. His hands are everywhere, seizing and clutching and dragging with a desperation Castiel had long-known was buried deep inside of Dean, but that he’d never expected to see surface.

When Dean’s hands make their way up to his face and into his hair, he gently grabs both wrists and removes them, holding his arms firmly between their bodies. “No, Cas please, Cas,” Dean begs, his voice cracking, and his nose running. “I’m sorry,” he pleads, and he’s so upset, so hoarse and tapped out from crying that the words barely come out. “Sorry Cas, I was wrong, I was wrong. I love you, I love you, shoulda let you stop me, please,” Dean’s swaying now where he sits, his eyelids half-closed from whatever emotional pain he’s going through. He gasps and coughs and Castiel sits stunned, in complete disbelief at what he’s hearing.

“Did you… did you just say that you love me?” He looks down at Dean, who nods miserably, tears still pouring down his face.

“Please,” Dean whisper. “Was so alone ‘n’ scared.” He swallows, heavy and rough, dragging in ragged breaths to continue. “You - dreamed of you. Was like a nightmare, ‘cuz I knew it wasn’t real… everything we never had. I thought… Cas please, let me touch you, please.”

Castiel sinks all the way to his knees between Dean’s legs. It’s tight, but he’s not about to try and move while Dean is finally… “Yes,” he rasps, taking one of Dean’s hands and lifting it to his cheek. “I’m going to touch you, too.” Dean moans in relief as Castiel’s own hand comes up to mimic the gesture, resting gently on Dean’s cheek. He sends a pulse of grace through Dean’s body, cleaning him and healing him of all the tiny wounds and imperfections, wiping his face clean save for new tears that still continue to fall. Dean’s lips are perfect now, Castiel can’t help but notice, and they’re so very close.

“I love you,” Dean blurts out again. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry… I should’ve… you…” he trails off, shaking his head, but instead of finishing his sentence he surges forward and kisses Castiel on the mouth. Shocked, Castiel hardly responds at first, but then his senses kick in all at once, firing up and activating, sending shockwaves through his body like he’s been asleep for years. Dean breaks the kiss abruptly and stares at him, looking almost as terrified as when Castiel first cracked open the box.

Castiel doesn’t give him time to respond, to regret. He pushes forward, bracketing Dean inside the stupid box with his arms around and his body above, kissing him and nudging at his mouth, his lips with his tongue until Dean opens, and _he does, he does._ Dean slips his tongue right alongside Castiel’s, he puts hands on his hips, he dips his head and licks at his sternum, the hollow of his neck, the soft stretch between his collar bone and ear. And Castiel pushes back, tugging at Dean’s ridiculously layered flannel shirts, as if he would need  _layers_ at the bottom of the fucking ocean, pushing them off and slipping the underlying t-shirt over Dean’s head. Castiel wraps an arm underneath Dean’s armpit and around his back, holding their naked chests perfectly pressed together as he dips his head to the side and bites Dean’s ear.

“Cas, Cas, yes, more, I need it, touch me Cas, please,” Dean’s begging is half-panting by now, and he’s pushing at Castiel’s slacks, seemingly too lost to remember what a belt buckle is used for. Castiel takes care of it, stripping Dean the rest of the way first and then himself, pushing Dean back down flat and covering his body with his own. Dean groans at the feel of them pressed together fully, and his tears pick up again for a moment, something Castiel only realizes because they wet his own cheeks as he sucks on Dean’s bottom lip. He leaves his arm underneath Dean, moving his hand up to slide under his head as a sort of pillow. Dean’s eyes are heavy-lidded, and they flicker up to Castiel’s often as if seeking permission, validation, atonement.

“I’m here,” Castiel reassures him, and Dean blinks out a fresh wave of tears. He’s hard though, and his hips move methodically, unflinchingly against Castiel’s thigh. Castiel wraps a thick hand around Dean’s cock and strokes, which makes Dean tilt his head back and moan. “Is this what you want?” Castiel kisses along the bolt of Dean’s jaw as he asks, and he can feel Dean start to nod before shaking his head.

“N-no,” he says, and Castiel lets go immediately. “No!” Dean grabs at the lost friction and drags it back, guiding it to return to those same ministrations before continuing. “More,” he says. “I want you, want you inside me. Need to feel you, Cas, please.” His eyes are locked on Castiel’s now, filled with hope and sorrow.

“I don’t- that will hurt,” Castiel warns with a furrowed brow.

“I want it,” Dean insists firmly, parting his legs and urging Castiel down. “Spit on it or something, I don’t care Cas, I don’t fucking care, please,” he chants, thrusting his pelvis into Castiel’s tight grip. “You won’t hurt me,” he adds softly. “It’s - ‘m not lookin’ to be punished. Just want you.”

Castiel can see the desperation, the desire, the need in Dean’s eyes, and he couldn’t deny him a thing even if he wanted to. Even after everything, and all the rage Castiel carted halfway across the continent to come here, he’s always been Dean’s. Castiel gets up onto his knees then, towering above him. He trails a finger down his abdomen, stopping short of running it down his cock and Dean shivers.

“You deserve to be punished, you know,” he says quietly, and Dean doesn’t even hesitate, just nods his agreement.

“I know that.”

Castiel leans forward, grabbing Dean’s thigh and jerking it up to his hip level, making Dean grunt. He lines himself up and sends a pulse of grace through to ease the way and _hey, why shouldn’t he get some of the fucking perks?_ When he pushes in, he can tell it still stings, but Dean groans and his nails scratch at the sides of the box like it’s all he’s ever wanted.

“More, Cas,” he demands, and Castiel stops, only half-seated. He raises his eyebrow. Dean swallows visibly and snaps his mouth shut. Castiel pushes the rest of the way in. He grips Dean’s ass and thrusts slowly at first, letting him adjust but giving him what he asked for at the same time. Dean takes it, revels in it, tears soaking his hair and collecting at the sides of his head.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and his voice is full of so much relief as Castiel picks up the pace.

“Touch me,” Castiel orders, and Dean’s hands fly up almost instantly to caress his nipples, his flank, to tangle in his hair, to grab at his ass and pull him in tight. Castiel fucks him hard then, their bodies slapping together and against the sides of the box. Dean gets more and more rowdy, bucking against him and grabbing at the sides of the box for leverage to meet him thrust for thrust. He’s stunning like this, open and free and willing and _all Castiel’s._ Dean’s mouth is back to making that sweet little “O” shape and Castiel wants to come all over it, wants to mark his face, mess him up and show him who he belongs to. Dean’s cock is a mess between them, purpled and twitching and drooling all over his own stomach. Castiel gives him as much friction as he can without using his hand, even batting away Dean’s own a couple of times which makes the man below him groan and arch and beg for more.

Castiel wraps a hand lightly around Dean’s throat but doesn’t apply any pressure. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” Dean breathes, without hesitation. “You, s’always been you.”

“Come for me, Dean,” Castiel commands, pushing his legs up and bending him almost in half to pound into him and consistently hit that sweet spot that makes Dean wail. The new position must add just enough additional stimulation because suddenly Dean _is_ coming, tensing up and shaking and spurting streaks all over his own chest. Castiel can’t help but drag a hand through and smear it.

He keeps fucking Dean until he stops shaking and starts moaning about “too much, too much,” pulling out to hover over him. He shoves his tongue down Dean’s throat and even in his fucked-out state, Dean’s hands come up to pull at his hair, his mouth urging back as hard and heavy as Castiel’s giving. Castiel sits up then, bringing the hand that’s in his hair along and wrapping it around his own dick. Dean watches through heavy eyes as his own hand flies over Cas’ cock, directed and covered by Castiel’s. When he comes, Castiel groans and spills all over Dean’s mess, collapsing on top of him and breathing heavily.

“Cas,” Dean’s voice says in his ear. “Swear this isn’t a dream.”

“Swear you’ll never do something this fucking stupid again,” Castiel challenges, his words muffled in Dean’s skin. Dean sighs and shudders, his arms coming up to wrap around Castiel’s shoulders.

“Swear.” His voice is quiet, haunted, and so atypically Dean.

Castiel raises his head to look Dean in the eyes, carding a hand through his spikey, sweaty hair. “Dean,” he says softly, dropping his head to Dean’s face and kissing away his tears. One escapes, trickling down past his ear and onto his neck and Castiel licks it all the way back up. He presses a soft kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth and without warning, flips them up and over so that Dean’s on top, his head pillowed on Castiel’s chest.

“Whoa,” Dean murmurs. “That’s some trick ya got there, Cas.” He sounds only half-awake.

“May I take you home, Dean?” Castiel’s own voice sounds exhausted, rung out, even to his own ears, and Dean nods against his chest.

“Fuck yes,” he sighs. A moment passes, and neither of them moves. “Can’t believe you came for me, Cas.”

Castiel scoffs. “What have I always told you, Dean? I will _always_ come when you call. Always.”

Dean nods again. “I did call,” he admits through a yawn. “Prayed ‘n’ everythin’. Love you, Cas. Love you. Missed you.”

Castiel blinks back his own tears as he stares up at the dusky sky. “I love you too, Dean.”

 

The ocean rocks the boat underneath them and Castiel stays still, cradling the man in his arms long after Dean's fallen asleep, for no other reason than he can. 

It's a strange feeling to be grateful for something not hours ago he was burning up with anger over, but love is a funny thing. 

Castiel's grateful.  


End file.
